


Field of Asphodels

by floating-in-blue (DeadLoaf)



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Forever Evil (Comics), Grayson (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Hurt/Comfort, Past Character Death, because DC keeps on hurting my boy, very minimal comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:28:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23946964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadLoaf/pseuds/floating-in-blue
Summary: “Happy Deathday, I guess.”
Comments: 4
Kudos: 103





	Field of Asphodels

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to @bigskydreaming (Tumblr) for helping with the characterization and feeding me inspiration from your Batfam(mostly Dick)-centric posts.

“Happy Deathday, I guess.”

Dick lets out a mirthless laugh that fades away rather quickly. Any other day he might sound more successful, but today is the anniversary of literally one of the worst days in his life. So, cut him some slack.

Sleep doesn’t come easy these days. Even his comfortable bed at the Penthouse wasn’t enough to drown out the nightmares. Heck, he can’t even sleep under a blanket without flailing and gasping for breath at three in the morning.

It was still dark when he went out. There was a small window of sunshine, muted under Gotham’s smog-filled sky, slowly being taken over by cumulonimbus clouds. Dick’s not an old man or anything, but his bad knee says it’s going to rain.

He hates the rain. No, scratch that. He hates what the rain reminds him of.

He didn’t bring anything essential, which was poor planning on his part. Not that he planned on coming here, it’s just where his feet took him after another sleepless night.

His oversized hoodie and sweatpants might be effective against the wind but he has no umbrella nor is there a nearby shade to take cover. Despite all these, Dick refuses to move from his position and instead, hugs his knees closer to his body.

The ground is soft beneath his bare feet. The area is well maintained, short blades of grass recently trimmed and not a single litter to be seen. He scrunches his toes to feel the dirt and strands of grass in between. It’s comforting to feel something besides cold tiles and hard concrete.

There’s no one else in the cemetery, which wasn’t unusual. The part reserved for the Wayne family usually is, except on certain days. Or when somebody dies.

The wind picks up and howls softly in his ears. Pollution, earth, and death mixed into a peculiar scent wafts into the area.

“I’ve thought about it sometimes, you know, how the funeral went. Who came? Who talked? Who cried?” He’d never admit it of course, he feels bad enough as it is. He might have been asleep or maybe already on the plane to the UK during that time, he’s not sure to be honest. To say that a lot was on his mind is an understatement.

There is moisture building up in his eyes and takes a deep breath to calm himself. “Oh my God, this is so weird.”

The chill makes his hands and feet cold. Minutes later, he discards his hoodie, exposing the old shirt he stole from Bruce’s closet sometime during the latter’s disappearance. Scarred olive skin immediately erupts into a sea of gooseflesh but he has long learned how to ignore the cutting cold.

The wind’s caress travelling beneath the surface of the skin and through the loose shirt brings comfort. He tries not to think about metal encasings.

He doesn’t succeed.

“Movies usually show a bright light or someone reaching out, but there’s nothing really.” Just darkness, suffocating darkness and suspension within a void. “B said I was dead for at least five minutes, but honestly, it felt longer than that.” Much, much longer. Drowning in an eternity of nothing before feeling his heart beat back to normal and the sudden rush of air into his lungs.

The sky rumbles louder and the wind cuts deeper, tousling his hair and billowing the back of his shirt.

He remembers shards of glass digging into his back and arms, the roars and onslaughts of misguided grief. Scathing words magnified by heavy fists. The marks might have disappeared, but the deepest wounds were left untreated, adding to previous collections still on the process of healing.

And while he was more than capable of moving on, it doesn’t mean the process still doesn’t hurt, that it isn’t difficult. Even more so if left unsaid, left undressed and scabbed.

The sky is morphing into a roiling sea of dark grey. He doesn’t know what time it is, just that he’s been here before the crack of dawn. Nobody will be looking for him anyway.

Jason and Tim are working together on a case. He’s glad they’re getting along better, even if most of it was built on mutual disdain for him and his actions.

Steph and Cass are at the clocktower with the Birds. Babs probably still doesn’t want to see his face. He wouldn’t either.

He and Damian spend time whenever they can, but Dick doesn’t want to begrudge Bruce of his son’s attention, especially now with his busier schedule. Damian is also slowly gathering friends of his own and he won’t get in the way of that.

So, he’s pretty much by himself. Surrounded perhaps, yet still alone. He’s gotten so used to the feeling by now, especially with his stint at Spyral where he was dead to the world. It doesn’t bother him as much anymore.

He reaches out a hand to lightly trace the name etched in the smooth marble.

_Richard John Grayson._

Tears start to well up but he makes no move to resist nor wipe his eyes. Once they start dripping down, it becomes a steady stream.

There’s no one to see. There’s no one to hear. There’s no one to judge. Only the graves in front of him and the open sky as witnesses. No cameras, no invasive tech in his mind, no wandering eyes, and no unwelcome hands.

He looks at the two gravestones on his left. “I look like a wreck, don’t I? Not really on my optimal performance look but I’m sure both of you would understand. ” He smiles wryly. “Just a bit of downtime before the show must go on.”

A drop lands on his nest of hair and on one of his pinkie. Slow and steady, droplets fall, the opening act before the main performance.

He’s good at performing. Both on and off the stage. But for now, he lets go and flops onto his back, lying spread-eagled on the ground.

Drops turn to a shower, and eventually a downpour.

He refuses to close his eyes, fearing the images the darkness will show, the memories that will surface.

Instead, he squints at the sky and lets the rain fall alongside his tears, welcomes the raindrops splashing on his body, and watches the thunder chase the ever elusive lightning. Sobs escape his throat as his vision blurs.

After everything, he finally lets himself mourn. Lets the bottled up loneliness, despair, and grief rise to the surface, to finally show themselves and be washed away. Lets the cold seep into his skin, making him shiver and his teeth chatter, as both a penance and a reason to feel.

He mourns another piece of Dick Grayson lost to a cause. Another piece of the happy little boy flying with his parents, fragmenting and disappearing.

He mourns because he knows he wouldn’t hesitate to do it again a hundred times over if it means everyone would be safe.

And as far as he’s concerned, the grave was never empty to begin with.

**Author's Note:**

> I impulse-wrote this while working on my WIPs lmao.


End file.
